


The Secrets That We Keep

by yumimum



Category: Blackpool
Genre: Adultery, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Missing Scene, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumimum/pseuds/yumimum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a certain irony to be found in abandoning ones morals outside the Samaritan’s front door, but with the afternoon sun casting dappled shadows across his lover’s skin, Peter Carlisle had long since ceased to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets That We Keep

There was a certain irony to be found in abandoning ones morals outside the Samaritan’s front door, but with the afternoon sun casting dappled shadows across his lover’s skin, Peter Carlisle had long since ceased to care. Already, he was an addict. Already, he craved her touch. Blackpool itself was now synonymous with his future happiness, yet one false move would send those hopes and dreams toppling like the house of cards he’d so carefully built around them.

He was a police officer for pity’s sake—the youngest D.I. on record. Back in Kendall he was the envy of his department, and now here he was, felled by his own weakness, cursed to uphold these fallacies lest the chief suspect’s _wife_ see him for what he truly was. A coward. A cheat. A slave to her tender kisses. Like gravity, she’d pulled him into her orbit, and alright, so maybe his methods were _somewhat_ contentious, but even that couldn’t staunch the pride he felt at knowing she was his.

Here and now, she was his.

Here and now, it would have to suffice.

And if that didn’t drive him to the nearest pint of McEwan’s, then he didn’t know what would.

Natalie Holden was a beautiful woman, there was no denying that, but when Peter’s gaze dropped to her kiss-swollen lips he knew this went far beyond a physical attraction—beyond anything as banal as lust or greed.  He wanted to cherish her—he wanted to _love_ her—and despite his secrets, despite his failings, despite everything he’d swore to uphold, he was determined to keep her by his side.

He was her question man, and she... she was fast becoming his everything. Fate was a fickle mistress, but he was nothing if not pragmatic. Granted, he hadn’t earned his detective’s badge by sticking to the rules, but nor had he done so by flouting his heart, either. They’d made a connection, him and her—something that transcended all this pretence. It felt like he’d been waiting for her his whole life, and if doing the wrong thing was the first step towards salvation, then motive, means and opportunity were the tools he’d use to set them free.

He knew he could make her happy—knew he could treat her like she deserved. The opportunity itself was laid out before him, and the means? Well... he’d always been good with his words—good with his _tongue_ , too, by all accounts. Hard work and dedication, that’s what this case needed, and Peter could think of no better reward as he freed the knots from Natalie’s hair, one hand skimming her spine whilst he soothed the aches from their previous exertion.

Nothing in the world could compare to this. The knowledge alone made him tremble. Hours, he’d spent in her arms, and still he strived for more. Exhausted beyond exhaustion, yet one doe-eyed look had him—

“...a girl could get used to this,” she murmured, and the depth of contentment he found in such simple praise only strengthened his resolve.

“What’s that?” he teased. “Scummy wallpaper and a sea view?”

“Hardly.” Natalie’s smile dropped in an instant. “Waking up with you...”

“Oh, aye?”

“Yeah....” Inching forward, she raked a nail through his unkempt stubble. “How am I supposed to walk away, eh?”

“Then don’t.”

“ _Peter...“_                                                                                

“ ‘cause from where ‘m standing, a man cannae keep from making love to you, either.”

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Peter’s thoughts leapt someplace primal as he slid the sheets from Natalie’s legs. Straightaway, she shivered under his caress, but ignoring his body’s demands he scooted down the bed and settled between her thighs. Nothing else existed but this moment. The murder, his job, the deceit, it all amounted to naught. He saw nothing but her—knew nothing but her. His entire focus was honed on bringing her pleasure, and drowning in her taste—starved for the want of more—Peter couldn’t help but take himself in hand as he searched her eager features.

In a matter of seconds he was captured by her eyes, and like the willing prisoner he was, he felt his body tip forward, summoned by the slick promise within. She was blushing something fierce, but still, she let him explore.  Lick after lick. High after glorious high. There was a divine retribution in watching her squirm, and with his aching muscles a testament to their transgressions he curled two fingers inside her, lapping and circling her swollen clit until she was clawing for air, repeatedly pleading for more.

More of _what_ he couldn’t quite tell, but adding another digit he proceeded to drive her higher—revelling in her screams as she arched from the mattress—easing her down when the violent shudders of her orgasm grew too much to endure. Ultimately, she collapsed against the pillows, and Peter didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he dove back to her mouth—sharing in her gasps then taking possession by the only means at his disposal.

His hands couldn’t keep still, but how could they when she returned his kiss with such fervour?  Restless, they smoothed across her stomach. Up again, and they skirted the undersides of her breasts. Without even trying this woman had stolen his heart, and a deep growl rose from Peter’s throat as he sucked at her bottom lip, his chest now brushing her nipples with careful deliberation.

“D’you believe me?” he asked, when they finally parted for air, and a shaky nod was the best she could manage as he hooked an arm under her knee, surging forward and burying his cock with one, firm, shove. It was insane, this need to prove his devotion, yet each whispered endearment flowed like poetry as he delighted in her warmth—filling her, stretching her—gauging her every reaction as he reared back and did it again.

“Fuck...” Peter groaned, clenching his jaw whilst snaking a hand between them. “Natalie, I...” The end was fast approaching, and his thrusts turned erratic as he shifted his weight, seeking the sensitive bundle of nerves half-hidden by her curls. Two quick swipes had her moaning his name, a third left her breathless. The slamming of the headboard kept up a steady rhythm, and tamping down his confession Peter shouted out his release, sending up a silent prayer when she bucked and followed right after.

How long they lay there was anyone’s business, but sweaty and sated, they held each other close—his face pressed to Natalie’s shoulder as she swept the fringe from his damp forehead. Above them, a cheap, plastic, wall clock marked the passing seconds, and a dead weight settled in Peter’s chest as his lover sighed in defeat, shattering the illusion with three simple words.

“...I should go.”   
  
She might as well have slapped him.

Still, this was all about the long game. The bigger picture. The end result. There was a whole other world that existed outside this hotel room, and the reluctance on Natalie’s features brought some measure of compensation as she rolled to the side, unwilling—or perhaps, unable—to meet his eyes.

Where was that silver tongue when he needed it most, eh? There were words—he knew there were—but the lump in Peter’s throat felt like it could choke him, and the ones he so jealously guarded seemed woefully inadequate  as he watched her gather her clothes—gather her armour—and return to the life she knew best. The life she led with _him._

Maybe he was a lying bastard, but at least he wasn’t a heartless one.

How could he be when the organ itself felt like it was _breaking?_

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so my muse is still in a Blackpool mood. What can you do? And, yes, I know Peter's a manipulative little git, but there's just something about D.I. Carlisle that melts my fangirl heart.


End file.
